Growing up, we called it "Tuna Crapperole."
My worst memory of it, I was 10 or 11. The whole family was about to go for an after-dinner walk. My plate was still full of the creamy, noodley stuff. Parents laid down the law: I couldn't go on the walk unless I cleaned my plate. I stalled and waited, waited and stalled. But they wouldn't give in. I
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